


nothing like you

by lamourestout



Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: Ableist Language, M/M, Thoughts of Self-harm, implied abusive relationship, internalized ableism, more like..., warnings for:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:49:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21709261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamourestout/pseuds/lamourestout
Summary: sander prays, but not for himself.
Relationships: Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Comments: 18
Kudos: 230





	nothing like you

**Author's Note:**

> most of this has pretty heavy material, including a warning for thoughts of self-harm, as well as nightmares relating to the gaybashing that sander and robbe went through. also a warning for implied past abuse, as well as a lot of internalized ableism from sander. 
> 
> i can't wait for friday or anything so i had to write to cope.

It’s not an instant cure. He’s not going to walk out of the hospital cured, with everything stablized, with things perfect, and all of his other problems solved. It’s a  _ step _ . One that makes him feel sick and humiliated and horrible, but one he  **knows** he has to take. He has to take it because … he can’t do that… what happened… he can’t do that to people anymore. Or, he has to try not to.

He thinks  _ people _ but he means  _ Robbe _ . He doesn’t know if Robbe will even want to see him after that show. 

He’s not supposed to think like that, he knows this. 

But, he’s humiliated and horribly embarrassed, and his stomach hasn’t stopped churning since everything slowed and he was wrapped up in a shock blanket, naked besides, and  _ people  _ were there. People and people and people and it almost sent him reeling back into that horrible mindset. 

Britt got into the ambulance with them and he shut down. 

Completely. 

He couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t close his eyes -- a result of both his own mind unable to let him, and the attendants, his mother, worried that he might have gotten himself sick -- sick in a way  **_besides_ ** sick inside his head.

No one besides him knows how little he wants Britt around. 

He heard Robbe’s voice, though it might have just been a bit more of his delusions; delusions and delusions and  _ more  _ delusions. That’s what they’re telling him. He doesn’t believe it. He believes it. He doesn’t believe it.

_ He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not _ .

He doesn’t believe anything Britt says, so…  _ he doesn’t believe it _ . Not delusions. They’re not delusions. Robbe isn’t a delusion. His feelings for Robbe aren’t a delusions. **_They’re not a delusion_ ** . He repeats this over and over in his head as Britt, as his mother, as the attendant try to get him to speak. 

He just keeps his mouth shut, and stares out the back of the ambulance. 

He can almost see the stars. 

Robbe talked about parallel universes, and so he wonders if Robbe likes just that part of science; the fancy, difficult to understand and follow part, or if he also likes simple things like the stars. 

He thinks about Robbe, even though Robbe is probably going to think he’s some sort of freak -- some sort of wild kid who can’t keep it together. 

He tried so hard.  _ So  _ hard. It always ends up like this. He doesn’t want it to always end up like this. He doesn’t want Robbe to hate him. Maybe, maybe he can apologize next week. Call him and say how sorry he is for ruining their night. Apologize and apologize and hope Robbe doesn’t hate him. 

He doesn’t think he’s going to sleep all week; he’s used to Robbe next to him. He’s used to Robbe’s arms around him, used to being able to tuck his head under Robbe’s chin and feel the slight, brief chill of the chain of his necklace against his cheek.

Yesterday, when he woke up, there was the imprint of the chain on his cheek when he woke up, early and  _ so  _ excited to make the day start with a wondrous surprise for Robbe. He saw it in the mirror, where he fixed his hair, and got ready to go to class -- almost too on edge to even  _ think  _ about class. 

But he made it. He made it to class. That means he’s  _ not  _ crazy. 

He ran his finger over the imprint; physical proof that he was close to Robbe. His finger kept going to it on the bus, and in class before it faded.

**_Robbe_ ** .

Robbe is going to hate him after this; he fucked it all up, he fucked it up. 

He can -- he can fix this. He can try to fix this. He can -- do  _ something _ . And he doesn’t yell and scream and throw a fit to get Britt  _ out  _ of his room, out of his life, out of his fucking medical file.  _ I’m eighteen _ , he says through clenched teeth,  _ I don’t want her here. I can make my own decisions _ .

_ I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy, my feelings are real, I’m not delusional!  _ Is what he wants to scream at them,  _ I love him _ , he wants to scream. 

It’s not that simple, he knows that, as he finally,  _ finally  _ gets everyone else out of the room and he can lay there, as he waits for a nurse to check on him. He can close his eyes. He can listen to the TV that they have playing. Background noise. He won’t be able to sleep, he knows that. He doesn’t expect to sleep. But his eyes closed make it a little easier to sort out things, everything, feelings -- even if it’s still impossible to truly know things. He never knows things. He struggles and gasps and flounders and flails for a grasp on the slippery trajectory of his life. 

It’s a complicated process, and he almost welcomes the isolation from everyone else -- the first couple days with limited access to the outside world once they get the paperwork sorted out. It’s a complicated process, but maybe he can figure out  _ his own feelings  _ without everyone around him  **telling him** how he feels. Who he is, what he’s supposed to do, feel, be.

He is silent when everyone tries to  _ see him off!  _

_ Bon voyage!  _

As if he’s going on a fucking  _ trip _ . 

It’s not a trip. 

It’s a step. 

It’s him desperately trying to know what he feels, and how to help  _ himself _ , and not hurt those he loves.

Those he loves.

Robbe.

Robbe.

Robbe.

He thinks of Robbe and he thinks of … well, he thinks of Robbe, because everyone else is smothering him, and maybe, he thinks, as they’re leading him to his room,  _ maybe  _ it’s not healthy to focus on doing this just because of a  **boy** , but he, as a fictional, mental health professional, would be happy that a patient,  _ himself _ , is prompted to get help based on  _ anything _ . 

He feels sick, once everything settles down, and he is given a few moments alone to breathe. He feels sick because he’s going to be the  _ crazy  _ guy again; skipping classes and showing up next semester without having sat exams with everyone else. 

_ You have excuses…  _ **_No_ ** _ , you have  _ **reasons** . You have stress, stress makes things worse for people  _ without  _ mood disorders. 

He tries to speak to himself kindly. 

It’s difficult, and by the time night settles… ( night falls, twenty-four hours after night fell in tandem with he and Robbe into bed) … it’s gone. He speaks to himself, in his mind, in harsh, harsh terms, and tries to curl away from  **himself** , but he’s always there. The horrible voice in his mind reminding him that no one  _ loves  _ him the way he wants to. The second they see the  **real him** , the one that freaks out and runs away, and can’t control himself, they leave. Or, they stay and treat him like --

_ He almost says he deserves it _ .

His hands clench in the pillow case he’s holding desperately.

He doesn’t deserve it.

He  **_doesn’t_ ** . 

They treat him like he’s less than they are. 

He buries his face in the pillow. 

He wants his things back. He wants his jacket and his boots and he wants his bag and he wants his  _ stuff _ ; he wants the things he wears and has and carries that keep him  **_safe_ ** . He can’t have them in here. 

They keep him safe, almost… comfort items, akin to the small, stuffed animals he had as a child. 

He’s without these things, now, so he has to try to do it on his own. He can do it. He can do it on his own. And then when he gets them back, he’ll be stronger. 

His legs curl up, further closer to his chest. 

If he just hides until morning, he’ll be okay. 

He doesn’t talk to anyone. He feels so  _ tired  _ that he saves his strength for talking with the professionals. The doctors who talk to him and question him, and make sure he’s not going to try to kill himself tonight. 

He sits on a soft chair in the lounge, pulls up his knees to hold himself close, and stares at the ground while he’s waiting for time to pass. 

Before, weeks ago, after they got beat up, he prayed. 

He hadn’t prayed in years; he has an atheist's heart, though not necessarily a scientific one. He has an atheist's heart, he’s not spiritual, and all he can think he might believe in is reincarnation, only on a unfounded hope that he might end up in a next life not this  _ tired _ and in  _ pain _ . 

But he prayed.

Not for himself, because that’s, first of all, selfish. If he’s going to pray, he’ll pray for others. And two, he doesn’t deserve prayers. Prayers can’t fix a chemical imbalance in his brain. 

But he prayed. For Robbe.

_ Dear God. _

_ Hi. I know I haven’t done this before, and if you are real, it’s unlikely you’ll care about what I have to say, since … i don’t know if I believe, but this isn’t about me. And anyway, if what they tell me is true, you’ll probably hate me because of my feelings. Because I’m praying for my boyfriend. But if you’re real, and you can fix things or help people, I want you to help him. I want you to help Robbe. We… I’m afraid. I’m afraid because of what happened and I’m afraid for him. I … I know that with things like what happened, trauma and sometimes nightmares come after that. I just want to ask … I want to ask that he doesn’t have nightmares. You can give them to me, I can take it. I can handle it. I can take all the nightmares, I just don’t want him to suffer more.  _

_ So, if … if you’re real, and you can influence things like this, I want you to take all the nightmares he might have, and give them to me. Please.  _

He spoke these words in a whisper, face pressed against his pillow, eyes clenched tightly closed, hands folded, in a desperate, last-ditch attempt to keep Robbe safe. 

That was weeks ago.

Now, he curls into a ball in this institution bedroom. He curls himself around a pillow, folds his hands, and prays. 

_ Dear God. _

_It’s me again. The guy who doesn’t believe in you. I know you probably don’t_ _  
_ _care, but I want to ask you to do something again. To help Robbe, again. My_ _  
_ _boyfriend, remember him? I … could you help him sleep? I don’t know if he really_ _  
_ _cares, but if he can’t sleep, can you help him? I don’t need to sleep, you can take_ _  
_ _my sleep and give it to him. I want him to sleep. I don’t want him to worry, even if_ __  
_he hates me now. I want him to be okay, because I love him. And if that’s really_ _  
_ __bad in your book, then I hope you don’t take it out on him. Because I love him.

The prayer ends there, and it ends in him just whispering  _ I love him _ into his pillow. 

He wakes, without knowing he fell asleep, the bright light of the sun startling him, even with his eyes closed, and for the briefest moment, he thinks he has just rolled away from Robbe in the middle of the night; he stretches out his arm and smacks his hand against the cold, hard wall of the institution and any strength he has is gone. Sucked right out of him. 

He’s too tired to even -- to …

It scares him to think of his immediate reactions; the one that says to smash his hand against the hard wall until  _ something  _ breaks. To just have a real reason to feel pain. He curls in on himself, pulling his hands close, to make sure he  _ doesn’t _ . 

They give him his meds, he eats, he stares at a magazine and his eyes barely recognize the words as he sits up in the lounge, getting more and more tired by the moment. 

He wants his music. He wants his boots and his jacket and his  **_music_ ** .

He sits and answers questions about how he feels, and tries to be honest, even though he continues to restrain himself, trying to be honest, but not too honest, and everyone here  _ knows  _ he’s not straight and there’s a small tick under his skin, that makes him fearful and his chest gets hot whenever someone’s voice gets a little weird and they bring up  _ that boy _ \-- no one told them Robbe’s name, and he still wants to scream it from the rooftop.

Everyone “knows” he’s not straight. He hopes they didn’t listen to what Britt probably had to say, what his mother might have had to say.

They know, but he’s afraid they’re treating it like a delusion.

It’s  **_not_ ** .

He curls in on himself while he sits and tries to listen to the psychologist. 

He says something, and it sounds very slightly weird to Sander. His jaw clenches, he presses himself further into a ball, and he says, 

“I’m in love with him. His name -- his name is Robbe, and I’m in love with him.” 

Maybe his perception is off. Maybe he’s not understanding people’s tones and meaning and intentions properly right now.

But he says it. He says it and looks this man in the eye, so maybe he can see his sincerity. He feels a little afraid, saying it, but he  _ loves  _ Robbe. 

He cries out, that night -- he awakens in the middle of the night, afraid, terrified, horribly  **_alone_ ** , and bolting out of a nightmare. He cries out for  _ Robbe _ . 

_ Robbe, Robbe! Leave him  _ **_alone_ ** _!  _

As he lunges for their attackers in the darkness, and they drag him backwards with the hood of his sweatshirt, and he chokes for a minute. But he still fights against him, hoping he could maybe just draw their attention enough for Robbe to run, get help, or even just leave him -- whatever, as long as Robbe is safe.

That doesn’t happen, and he’s silenced with fists and pain and --

He’s shaking when he wakes up, in this unfriendly, impersonal room. He has to turn the light on, sitting up in the corner of the room, taking his pillows, his blanket, and curling in on himself. When attendants come into his room in the morning, they find him there, head against the wall,  _ almost  _ asleep, but he can’t sleep. Not after that. 

He spaces out at lunch. Everyone else is gone by the time someone notices he hasn’t even touched his food.

He’s not doing well, anyone can see that. But at least he gets  _ some  _ peace and fucking  **quiet** ; if he were at home, there would be even more hovering. Hovering and looking at him with pity and forcing him to get up and move and go outside and right now, he’s so tired that it’s hard to  **_breathe_ ** .

He spaces out at dinner, the dark outside the few windows making him think about a few weeks ago, their date, the darkness outside that seemed gentle and calming and warm turning into a biting fear, and strikes fear into his chest now.

He doesn’t think they’ll ever let him out of here like this. 

“Do I get my phone back?” He asks, at his next meeting with the psychologist. 

“Your mom has it.” His hands curl into fists, and he doesn’t want to think about her looking at his notifications. He  _ hopes  _ that Robbe has messaged him, something,  _ anything _ . He doesn’t like the idea that she could possibly see that.

He shouldn’t hope like that; Robbe probably hasn’t sent him anything.

He shuts down after this. They let him go back to the lounge early, even though there’s someone watching him the whole time. He stares at the movie playing on the TV. 

He couldn’t say what it is. He’s seen it before, though. He has no idea what it is, though.

The days pass like this: routine, not set up by him. Meds. Food at the same time every day. He stares at the TV playing in the lounge. He talks to the psychologist. He doesn’t sleep. He probably looks  _ worse  _ at the end, which he thinks is almost funny. 

If he starts laughing about that, they’re going to think he’s really gone off the deep end, but staring at himself in the mirror in the bathroom, he’s certain he looks worse; he changes into his street clothes -- he thanks his mom for bringing him his black jeans, his favorite t-shirt. He doesn’t get his boots, instead an old pair of slip-on Vans he hasn’t worn in ages. 

They don’t trust him, and he doesn’t necessarily blame him.

He chuckles a little, dark humor settling back into his mind, because he really  _ does  _ look pretty fucked up. 

He doesn’t laugh when he greets his mom, hands shoved into his pockets as she offers him his coat -- the warm, puffy winter coat he never wears, because it’s  _ bright fucking blue _ , and the hat his grandmother knitted five years ago. 

He doesn’t like these things. They’re not  _ safety _ . 

But he puts them on, and shoves his hands into the pockets of this coat, able to hunch over a little.

He is signed out.

His mom brought the car to pick him up. 

He sits in back.

“Did you bring my phone?” His voice doesn’t sound like him.

“I thought you might like to talk to me, instead.” He doesn’t say  _ I don’t _ , instead just stays silent. She pulls away from the curb, and drives in silence.

He spaces out a little on the drive home.

The first thing he asks for when they get back inside, is his phone. Not his boots, not his jacket, not anything else.

His phone.

He has to know.

He hides away in his room, shutting the door before his mom can say anything, sitting right up against the door so no one can come in. 

There’s nothing on the lockscreen, but he’s not suprised. His hands shake as he tries to get to their text thread. 

His hands shake as he sees how  _ many  _ messages Robbe sent him. 

In the middle is one that says:  _ Sorry about all these messages, I just keep thinking of things that remind me of you, so I have to say them _ .

His hands drop the phone, and he’s covering his face, pulling his knees up and burying himself in a ball. 

_ I’m listening to the Bowie playlist, though I like it a lot better when my tutor is around. _

_ I heard that you’re going to be in the hospital for a bit. I hope you’re feeling okay.  _

_ If you want, I want to see you when you’re feeling better. _

_ I don’t know when you’re going to get out, but if you’re up for it, I’m having dinner with my dad next Friday, I know it’s soon, but I would love to have you come with me. I know it might be tiring, so I understand if you can’t or don’t want to. _

_ I read about bipolar disorder.  _

_ I’m sorry if that’s weird.  _

_ I just wanted to understand a bit more. _

_ I found a YouTube video that said I should listen to a person’s personal experiences with any mental illness. I won’t read anymore about it. I don’t want to make assumptions. _

_ I am thinking of you. _

_ I had dinner with my dad. I told him about you, I hope that was okay. I told him about Bowie and he said he went to a Bowie concert with he was younger. He said he would try to find the T-Shirt he bought there. _

_ Whoops, I wasn’t supposed to say that… it might be your Christmas present. :)  _

_ If you’re into that. _

_ If you want to spend Christmas with me. _

_ I shouldn’t have made assumptions. _

_ Sorry, I’m sending you so many messages. I don’t want to overwhelm you, but I just can’t stop thinking about you. _

_ I was thinking about making a playlist of some of my favorite songs for you to listen to, but I don’t want to be overbearing. I feel like I’m being overbearing. _

_ I passed the rest of my exams. I’m free until the semester starts up again. I’m not going to do anything. Just sleep, smoke, and watch Netflix.  _

_ I am down for Netflix and chill ;)  _

_ Sorry, that was probably insensitive.  _

_ I love you, Sander.  _

Sander cries. He sits against his door, and all the built up emotions tumble out and over and culminate in him curled up against himself, sobbing until the knees of his jeans are wet with tears. It’s so much. It’s  _ so  _ much.

He’s still crying when he fumbles for his phone, trying to type with blurry eyes, just trying to get out a  _ I love you, Robbe _ into the message, to be able to send it. 

And he cries harder when Robbe replies almost instantly. 

Replies with heart emojis and a  _ You’re back!  _ And a  _ how are you feeling?  _ And a  _ I’m listening to the Bowie playlist again _ . All in rapid succession. 

He doesn’t even know how to reply. 

But he has to, he just sends another  _ I love you _ , because that sums it all up. He lets his head fall back against his knees, and his phone vibrates again with Robbe’s message. It’s just  _ so much. _

He doesn’t think Robe hates him. He must not, if he’s messaging him this many times. Saying things like this. He just -- it’s  _ so much _ . 

Robbe has sent him more heart emojis. Like he almost understands that Sander is overwhelmed. 

_ I just got my phone back.  _ It takes him a while to type out, still teary-eyed, and trying to catch his breath. It’s shaky. 

_ Good!  _ Sander watches as the  _ typing…  _ shows up a few times, stops, tries again. Before,  _ Can I call you?  _ Sander can’t do that right now, he’ll just sob on the phone and he doesn’t want that.

_ I’m trying to get my bearings, maybe tomorrow?  _ He’s surprised at how collected he sounds.  _ But _ , he adds quickly _ , we can talk like this, a bit.  _

_ That’s perfect _ . Robbe says. Sander’s phone buzzes some more, but all he can do is pull it in and hold it tightly to his chest; a stand-in for Robbe, but he feels better just knowing that Robbe is staring at his phone, thinking about  _ him _ . 

His mind tries to tear this peace away from him, but he fights back as hard as he can, and even more when Robbe seems to understand that talking of any kind is hard right now, and so there’s a small stream of messages, discussing easy things; easy things like how Robbe has been listening to the Bowie playlist a lot, and he thinks he’s ready for his test on it, or how he’s ready for a harder playlist, or that he really fucking loves  _ Let’s Dance _ . 

How he played the playlist for the his roommates, and they all drank and listened to Bowie and how Milan can’t actually sing, but Senne isn’t that bad, and they celebrated the end of exams, but wished Sander was there. And how they could do it again, and Sander would be more than welcome to join them. 

Sander breathes heavily, shakily, sitting against his bedroom door, and says  _ I would like that. A lot _ . 

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr: @evenbchnsheim


End file.
